


Hand Games

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, grade a+ grimdorks fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 10:29:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter how often John comes to his schlong's defense, Rose will always love her husband's hands the best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand Games

**Author's Note:**

> Some anon on the meme wanted John/Rose with a focus on the dextrous pianist's fingers of one Mr. Egbert. I made it as dumb as I could, because how else are you supposed to ship Grimdorks.

In the early morning, Rose enjoys the hands that find the alarm and, after several blind fumbles, hit the snooze button. These hands are not attached to her, but like many other pieces of John, they almost certainly belong to her. John leans back around her, mumbles “Ten more minutes,” into her tousled hair, and fits his hand around hers as sunlight begins to warm the sheets.

Around breakfast time, Rose appreciates the hands that hold the skillet, how tendons flex beneath tan skin as John adjusts his grip, flips the pancakes, and only lands one on the burner. She snorts over her coffee as he curses and tries to recover it before it catches fire. In a few minutes, after the syrup has been retrieved from the fridge and fire extinguisher replaced beneath the sink, she will kiss the tips of each of the three fingers he burned. He will have to beg and plead her to do it, eyes wide and lower lip quivering, because she has never told him how much she loves to hold his hand in two of hers, his palm dwarfing hers, and she absolutely never will. Every relationship has its secrets.

Just before lunch, Rose can envision hands covered in chalk and holding children and turning pages and making quarters disappear before wide-eyed little faces. She taps her pen against the edge of her desk and smiles to think of how firmly John will grip a parent’s hand in his own, instilling confidence in two solid shakes, just as his dad taught him. When the phone rings by her desk, and she says, “Hello” into the receiver, she is not for one second fooled by the comically deep voice on the other end that asks, “Is your mother home, young girl?” After twenty years of knowing John Egbert, Rose has discovered that she can hear buck teeth and blue eyes just about as clearly as she can hear the laughter he is failing to muffle with the back of his hand.

After a long afternoon of writer’s block, Rose delights in the hands that rub feeling into her stiff shoulders, deft thumbs pressing deep into the knotted muscles of her neck. She rolls into them, eyes drifting shut as she purrs, “Oh, Mr. Lalonde, now I remember why I keep you around.” John puts his mouth to her ear, fingers still working into Rose’s shoulders, and says, “I can think of another reason or two, Mrs. Egbert.” He is using his “”sex voice””, so Rose has already begun laughing by the time he clarifies in that same husky whisper, “I’m talking about my dingle-dangle.” When Rose’s giggles only increase, he sticks his tongue in her ear and makes her shriek.

In the evening, Rose only mildly resents the hands that place her glass of red wine beyond arm’s reach, John chiding her about leaving water stains on the maple as they settle onto the piano bench. He tries to teach her Mozart, but her fingers can’t reach like his, stretching over octaves to pull chords from the keys, tripping over black and white like the sounds he makes from hammer and string aren’t every kind of beautiful. She watches him watch the instrument, marveling at the way his face settles as he plays, how his body subsides into calm focus, as if he’s funneled all the bounce and motion of the preceding day into his long, long fingers at the keys. He catches her watching, grinning from the side of his mouth, and immediately switches to a familiar doo-wop progression, an eyebrow raised in expectation. Rose obliges, and together they play Heart and Soul, giggling whenever their hands brush. They sing, too, after Rose finishes her wine, eagerly substituting enthusiasm for talent and volume for tune.

It’s at night, in the dark, that Rose likes John’s hands the best. They roam over her, cupping breasts and parting thighs, and she is subsumed by them, melts into the fingers that tick slowly down her vertebrae. She knows every muscle of the hand, committed them to memory one night when the nightmares were thick and cloying, and she notes every flex of thenar and hypothenar as John cups her hips and dips his head between her legs. His hand always finds hers when she comes, tongue still working at her clit, and she squeezes his knuckles white in the darkness. Afterwards, two broad hands hold her close to him, one spanning the width between her shoulders, the other cupping her head, and she falls asleep with his breath in her ear.


End file.
